


Doorway to Adventure

by Faerendipitous



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game), Gravity Falls
Genre: FFN wouldn't let me format this the way I wanted to so I'm posting it here instead out of pure spite, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2018-09-14 16:44:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9193955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faerendipitous/pseuds/Faerendipitous
Summary: After so long in the woods, Wilson Higgsbury knew that if he ever made it back to civilization, he was going to have to start over and build a new life. What he never expected was to escape to a bizarre new world full of creatures like Gremloblins and Cornicorns. To the gentleman scientist, the sleepy little town of Gravity Falls is an adventure all its own.





	1. An Exercise in the Boundaries of Science

_ “Say, pal…” _

Those words were burned, branded into his subconscious. They were loud, abrasive, and dripped with a poisonous suavity that Wilson wouldn’t soon forget.

He’d been a blasted  _ fool _ to listen to such a shady man, giving him shady instructions to build a shady machine. Not once, back in his little cottage on the outskirts of Falmouth, had he considered the ramifications of his actions. Not once had he considered what dark terrors might lurk in the shadows, watching his progress, dictating his every little action he slaved away over the mysterious machine. He’d drove himself quite near the edges of human capability building that machine, and for what? To be led to his own imprisonment in this cursed forest? To be hunted down by hounds and beasts of shadow and any number of other monstrosities that lived out here? Was that his reward?

Well, let it all be damned. He was long sick of this place and its bizarre inhabitants, its strange seasons and its deadly darkness. This was far beyond some terrible joke or even a waking nightmare. This was…

This was…  

Well to be fair, he didn’t know exactly what to call it. He was a scientist, not a linguist! All he knew was that this place was horrible, dangerous, and most certainly evil. It was out for his blood, is what it was! Out for his blood because apparently the generous helping he’d given the machine in the first place hadn’t been enough! The idea offended him, really, but he had other things to worry about at present.

Wilson took a deep breath, clutching the blade of his flint knife in the palm of his hand. If it was his blood this place wanted, it was his blood it would get!

He jerked the blade from his grasp, gritting his teeth as it tore open his palm, the second time in – well, truthfully, Wilson had lost track of how long he had been out here. It must have been weeks. Either way, to have to split open his own hand twice was two times too many for one lifetime, in his opinion. His palm burned, his wound seeping, turning his palm slick and bloody as he tentatively dipped a finger in the resulting ichor.

Ehwaz to Mannaz, Wunjo to Raidho; his blood completed the runes. Droplets fell to the marble beneath his feet as he worked, hitting the stone with a soft pitter-patter that betrayed the gruesome nature of the task. Thurisaz, the reagent. Jera, a scientific success. Perthro, to hide his tracks. Each rune was carefully constructed or reconstructed on the face of the great wooden platform. He clutched his bloodied hand into a fist, doing his best to stop the bleeding while he worked, knowing it would heal over the moment he landed in whatever convoluted world this new machine brought him to.

It wasn’t the first time Wilson had used the wooden platforms, adorned with all the broken bits of the door that he’d created in his workshop back home, scattered across an infinite realities to aid his constant race against the forces that brought him here. He’d built this device over and over again, each time the faint hope that he could somehow outrun the devil that had brought him here driving him like a madman. The very definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Wilson had spent an ungodly amount of time out in these forests, watching shadows move and taunt him out of the corner of his eye, telling himself that it was his imagination, that he was as sound and stable as ever, but it wasn’t until he’d landed in this world – or rather, this version of the world, as they never really seemed to change – that he’d realized with rancorous laughter that he’d constructed a remarkable number of these devices using the exact same components in the exact same way each time, and each time holding out that sliver of hope that maybe, somehow, this would be the one. This had to be it, he’d told himself, this had to work.

Over and over again he’d played the fool, the poor insane sod trotting about the forest, collecting bits of a machine that never should have existed in the first place while dodging death at every corner, only to do it all again from scratch when he’d finished!

He supposed he was great entertainment. He’d figured that’s what he was here for, at any rate. Some cruel amusement for whatever forces moved the stars. 

The divining rod shuddered a bit on its perch, the movement caught out of the corner of his eye and ignored as if he’d just had a particularly nasty spat with the thing. Truth be told, he was fairly angry with it. A bit of misplaced aggression never hurt anyone – not when they were the only sentient being for ages, at least. He’d built and rebuilt the damned rod more times than he’d like to admit, and the blaring siren it produced was certainly no treat for the ears, despite its quaint appearance of an old radio.

But what came out of the radio next solidified Wilson’s convictions: he hated the bloody thing.

“ _ Say, pal… _ ” came the garbled voice, barely understandable through the snowstorm of static that the siren had long ago devolved into. Wilson had never really heard the voice over the radio as much as he had felt it. The strange, fuzzy sounds of static weaving themselves into words and syllables in his head. The voice was suave and melodic, almost hypnotic as he froze, his shoulders tensing up as he listened. “ _ …you really shouldn’t be doing that. _ ”

Wilson’s lips turned up in a savage grin. He was making the mysterious voice angry? Good. Let it be angry. He was angry. Angry that he’d had to endure the night terrors and the gaping wounds and the breathless flights as he fled from the beasts with gnashing teeth and death in their eyes. The voice could be angry about a few rearranged runes. He finished, the last line smeared in his own blood looking a bit dry as the rusty color of his additions began to seep into the porous wood.

He ignored the voice, admiring his own handiwork as he stood, rummaging a strip of spider’s silk from his backpack. The thing was just about falling apart at the seams; he’d never been much of a boy scout, if he were honest. But it was enough to survive with, and it’s not like he could take it with him, either. That much had become painfully clear after his first encounter with these strange devices. A week’s worth of rations, gone! Scattered to the winds along with his painstakingly woven backpack – the first of many, it would seem.

He tied the silk around his palm, letting its natural glue hold the dressing in place. He watched, perhaps a bit absently as his blood began to spot and speckle the portion of the makeshift bandage that covered his flayed palm. He heard the static of the radio, despite knowing he’d turned the divining rod off hours ago, after he’d found a familiar landmark and followed the path directly to the wooden platform. He pondered, quietly, the foolishness of it all. How dense he’d been…

But no more foolishness. No more insanity. The runes dried, baked beneath the scorching summer sun that beat relentlessly down on Wilson every day of the season. The rains would come soon – they followed close behind the most aggressive of the heat.

Best make this quick.

He’d come prepared this time. With little in his pack aside from the necessities of travel, he set it heavily on the ground, joining it only a moment after. His trek across the savannahs and through the marble chess-scape had left him more than a bit peckish. More than once, he’d made the mistake of traversing these worlds wholly unprepared. Hungry and tired, he’d activated the device and let the shadows whisk him away to a new world, only to arrive with no resources on the brink of another deadly night.

It was something he’d noticed over the countless times he’d tried to make his escape through the device. There was always lost time. If he travelled at morning, it would be dusk when he woke up in the next world. If he travelled at dusk, he would arrive in the pitch blackness, and have to race against the shadows to keep himself alive.

So now, with the device built and modified to his liking, with the sun creeping higher and higher in the sky and the clockwork creatures no more than a pile of mechanical rubbish off in the distance, Wilson sat himself down and helped himself to the remaining contents of his pack.

He’d never had so much of an appreciation for berries and dried meats as he did now. They were the staple of his diet since the beginning of his stay in this nightmarish world. He’d tried growing his own crops on more than one occasion, but it seemed not even the looming threat of a slow and miserable death could persuade his poor gardening skills to relieve him of the haunting past of having killed every houseplant he’d ever tried to tend to – and it seemed those gruesome, if entirely unintended, murders followed him to this world. He couldn’t get much more than a single miserable carrot to grow.

So, berries and dried meats it was! A bit bland, if he had to complain, but go a few consecutive days without having eaten anything, and you start to gain an appreciation for even the most unpalatable of edibles.

Moments like these had become a scarcity since he’d built the machine. Despite the knot of anxiety in his chest, it was actually rather peaceful. He had no fire to tend to, no grisly bits of meat to clean for tomorrow’s meal. No hounds, no spiders. Just him, his humble dinner, a spectacular blazing sunset, and the nagging presence of hope.

Oh, yes, Wilson was terrified. Best case scenario, the wooden device landed him in a nearly identical world to this one – his efforts would have been in vain, and it was back to square one in every conceivable way. No supplies, no food, no camp, and no success, leaving him to ponder other methods of escape.

Worst case scenario…

Thinking back to the horrible bloody mess he had to clean every time he hunted, knowing what entrails and other unmentionables looked like once they’d been hacked to bits, he didn’t particularly want to think about the worst case scenario.

Plainly put, he desperately hoped his alterations didn’t blow him up.

Science was – well, a  _ science _ . But this, these runes, these devices… he could hardly in good conscience call it science anymore. It was a perversion of every scientific principle and law and theorem he’d ever learned. These things shouldn’t have worked the way they did, but he’d accepted long ago that if he wanted to survive out here, he couldn’t dwell too long on it. As much as he’d have liked to pick it apart, to better understand the inner workings of those touchstones or the Shadow Manipulator – a machine he’d built himself! – he understood most of all that that wasn’t his place, not here.

Wilson stood just as the sun began dipping over the horizon. He dusted off his pants, brushing himself down and preparing himself mentally for whatever was about to transpire.

Another warning came over the radio, still stuck firmly in the ground just outside the marble chessboard perimeter. He’d have to leave it there. He ignored it, just as he ignored all the other ramblings and threats that came from that damned voice. It was listening to that voice in the first place that had landed him in such a miserable position! He saw no reason to believe that everything he heard of it wasn’t vile lies, meant only to derail him further.

He activated the platform. It rose up like a clumsy newborn animal, suspended above the wooden platform as the runes began to glow, all alike as the blood runes struggled to life along with their brothers. Wilson felt a strange sense of pride. It had taken him countless sleepless nights studying the runes presented on each of the platforms he’d come across, gaining a better understanding of them through the scribbled learnings of the pigmen and his own genius intellect. Even as he’d devised his plan, he hadn’t been entirely sure of himself, but seeing the runes working side by side, everything seemingly going off without a hitch as the device powered up, just the way he’d seen it done a dozen times before – he figured he could allow himself this little bit of pride, given the circumstances.

Swallowing thickly, Wilson stepped onto the platform, making sure the scuffed toes of his shoes didn’t dare touch the runes he’d worked so hard on. He took a deep breath.

It was eerily familiar, the situation he found himself in in that moment. With the voice in the radio shouting angrily at him, enraged as his hand reached tentatively for the lever to this newly made device, he suddenly felt as if he were back in his little cottage, locked away in his attic as usual, staring down the maw of the machine.

His good hand curled around the lever.

This was different.

And without further adieu, Wilson threw the switch with all the grandeur of an experienced scientist.

He remained on the device; he knew what to expect, but it was still something that turned his blood to ice and caused his heart to sink down to his knees. There was that horrible laughter again, the same voice that had goaded him into building the machine in the first place, only this laughter came from everywhere. Wilson had a strong suspicion that it was all in his head, that the laughter wasn’t even truly there, but he would never admit it.

He forced himself to stay still, watching as the shadows tore themselves from the ground, swirling and rising up like a black smoke, twirling and twisting as the wisps transmogrified, taking the form of terrible, clawed hands that reached for him from inky blackness.

His heart beat against his ribs, his head spinning as he felt their icy touch, the talons grasping him so tight he’d thought they were trying to squeeze the very life from him the first time they’d caught him. The laughter grew louder and louder in his ears as the shadows wrapped themselves like snakes around his form, lifting him off his feet before dragging him down, deep down, into the gaping abyss below as the shadows consumed him, whisking him away to some unknown place.

Darkness enveloped him, and Wilson fought to keep control of his mental faculties. It was very easy to slip into sheer terror when dragged down into the deep like this, to let fear and panic consume you like the shadows consumed your body. But Wilson was a rational man of science. He’d decided long ago that if he’d wanted to survive, he would need his incredible mind working full force, not distracted by things like fear or his own mortality.

And yet.

Something was very wrong.

The last thing he had seen was the sun dipping over the treetops, sinking below the horizon as the danger of nightfall blanketed the forest again. By his research, he was certain that time should have been displaced, that it should have been morning by the time he made it to this new world. So it came as a shock to him that the cold claws deposited him in the inky blackness of nighttime. Was this the fruit of all his laborious research into the mysterious runes that made the wooden platform run? So much work and tedious translation, all speeding him towards a grisly death at the hands of whatever lurked in the darkness. 

All this came in a flash instance, of course. The human mind was an incredible marvel, capable of picking up and processing several cues at once. So, understandably, the very next thing that crossed Wilson’s mind as the hands of shadow dropped him into this new world was that the ground was nowhere to be found.

Wilson flailed, hoping desperately that he would hit something solid. His stomach lurched as he fell, and suddenly he deeply regretted having dinner before his little trip.

Without regard to the hounds, or the shadowy beasts that were undoubtedly waiting for him below – without regard for the hour, or any sleeping inhabitants of this world, Wilson did the only thing he could think to.

He screamed.

His own voice sounded strange in his ears. It may have had something to do with hurtling towards the ground, surely, but truth be told Wilson was a little too preoccupied to really delve into the scientific process at the moment.

Wind whipped around him as he fell, and in the pitch of night he could only wonder how long it would be before he hit the ground. If there was even ground to hit! He hadn’t considered that possibility…

Suddenly, something else struck him.

He felt a sharp pain in his ribcage as the air was forced from his lungs. Whatever it was, it had felt large and wooden.

Coming to a rest for a moment, Wilson noticed he began slipping. Clammy hands began scrabbling, begging for purchase as gravity reclaimed him and dragged him down. The world began to spin, everything dizzy and topsy-turvy as he tumbled down and landed with a hard thud, the grass mercifully soft as he lay prone on the ground that had been all too eager to meet him.

He lay perfectly still, listening. Waiting.

There was no otherworldly screech, no howling wind as the shadows crept up on him. In fact, the only sound seemed to be crickets, undoubtedly disturbed by his noisy landing.

The gentleman scientist coughed painfully into the dirt. By God, that had hurt. He breathed slowly, testing his injuries. What in the name of uranium had he hit? It hadn’t felt like any kind of tree.

He froze. There it was. The sound in the darkness he’d been dreading from the moment he’d seen the black of night. His heart began pounding, hearing the great groaning echoing through the night. Light was out of the question; he had no materials and couldn’t see his own hands in front of his face. Dizzy with pain and fright, Wilson could barely keep his head up let alone run for cover.

Hearing the groaning grow louder and louder, Wilson let his head drop to the soft, cool grass. The darkness seeped into his senses, devouring the world around him as he lost his grasp on consciousness. He didn’t have time to worry about what was lurking out there. With each breath, it already felt like some heinous invisible force was trying to pull him apart. He quietly reminded himself of his conviction from earlier.

Whatever the outcome of the experiment, it was his doing. 

The last thing that Wilson heard was a monstrous crash just behind him, and then the world went as black as could be.


	2. Sleepy Little, Creepy Little Town

“Do you think he’s dead?”

Had he been conscious, he would have felt the rounded tip of a broom handle poking curiously at his shoulder.

Once.

Twice.

The man didn’t budge. The three concerned onlookers huddled over his form.

“I dunno, dudes. I’m going to go get Mr. Pines, you stay here in case he wakes up.”

“Good idea, Soos. Grunkle Stan will know what to do!”

Dipper Pines gave his sister a bit of a dubious look. His great uncle Stan was a thrifty man, if nothing else, but a good part of him seriously doubted the conman would know how to handle a mysterious stranger passed out on their lawn other than by going through his pockets and then calling the cops.

The electric hum of the golf cart faded into the distance. It was high noon and the Mystery Shack was in full swing, with tourists from every part of the country – and some from abroad, Mr. Pines would always brag – on a tour to see the bizarre wonders of Oregon, bravely wrangled and put on display for their viewing pleasure.

For a price, of course.

Dipper shook his head slightly. “Mabel, are you sure Grunkle Stan is really the most  _ qualified _ person to take care of this? Don’t you think we should find someone with a little more, you know, medical training? I could run inside and get Ford, I’ll be quick—“

He was cut off as she threw an arm out, hitting him. “Dipper, shh! He’s waking up!”

As much as he would have liked to argue his point, he was pretty interested in the stranger. He fell silent, watching as the man at their feet stirred and twitched.

Wilson groaned deeply. Every part of his body was sore and screamed at him for his foolish escape attempt. The previous night was rather hazy in his head, but he was sure it had almost killed him. Perhaps it had been the dark? If so, he thought dimly, as the world started to come alive around him, why hadn’t it finished him off once he’d lost consciousness?

The dark. It would be nightfall soon, and the dark would be back at his heels. He couldn’t afford to waste any more time.

With a painful breath, Wilson felt grass beneath his fingers. He moved slowly, with about as much urgency as he could muster with his head still swimming and his face buried in the dirt, and his hands turned to grasping fists in the grass, ripping up tufts as he tried to gather his wits and organize the mayhem swirling in his head, a million different thoughts and worries competing with the logical task making he so very badly needed to concentrate on.

The twins watched as the strange man came to and promptly began mutilating the greenery around the Mystery Shack. Everything this man did only sunk them deeper and deeper into a strange mystery, Dipper thought, watching him.

Gravity Falls, Oregon wasn’t what one would call a thriving city. It was a small, bumbling town at best, with few people calling the place home. Considering that, Dipper was certain that he’d never seen this man before. He was sure he’d remember the peculiar appearance of a man like this, with his old-timey waistcoat and flyaway hair, like some sort of eccentric storybook character.

He was fairly sure the stranger wasn’t a tourist, either. As much as he hated to generalize, all the tourists who came through their town had a particular sort of  _ tourist-y _ quality to them. You could spot them from a mile away, all wide eyed with their visors and their cameras, utterly fascinated by every little detail in a quaint, quiet town like Gravity Falls.

Tourists didn’t end up passed out in front of the Shack in the middle of the night.

Usually.

Mabel watched with wide eyes herself as the mysterious man lifted himself to his hands and knees, still making clumsy work of their lawn. He stuffed the little tufts of grass into the pocket of his waistcoat, hands trembling slightly with each reach as he went on, not so much as even looking up at the twins.

Perhaps he didn’t realize they were there.

“Uh… hello?”

Wilson, despite his aching injuries, was quick to his feet, spinning to face the source of the voice. He was shocked, truly, how different it sounded in this world, but as he spun on his heels, coming face to face with two little children, he began to second guess his initial judgment.

A strange, wonderful feeling began to bloom in his chest. These were  _ people! _ Real people, he was fairly sure, unless his occasional hallucinations were beginning to take on more solid forms than the living shadows that sometimes crawled at the edges of his vision.

To his rational mind, that could mean one of two things. Either he had done it - the blood runes and the device had finally freed him of that horrible, endless labyrinth of forests and monsters – or these two unassuming children were now his company in the nightmarish place.

But there was another part of him that was far less rational, brought to the surface by his own sheer will to survive. Genuine human instinct, something Wilson had never put much stock in back in Falmouth, had every nerve in his body screaming that he’d done it! This place was different, he could  _ feel _ it – the air was crisp here, not stale and heavy like back in the forest. The sun was warm and comforting instead of vicious. This place was different and while, to his rational mind, it was too early to really say whether his experiment had been a success or not, he already felt the overwhelming excitement in his chest.

Wilson beamed down at the two rather confused children, grinning and puffing his chest out proudly as he stood tall.

Oh.

Ow.

That was a bad idea.

His ribs gave a loud protest as he stood straight, and he grasped at them, leaving grass smeared across the sides of his vest. A miserable little noise escaped him as he realized just how sore his body was. Whatever had happened to him last night had certainly done a number on his upper body. Just holding himself upright was a chore. Probably best to avoid the theatrics for now.

Perhaps these children knew where they were. Any sort of definite answer would be more than enough for him – despite the familiar appearance of the forest, with its tall pine trees and scattered debris, Wilson was pleased to see what he assumed were signs of civilization. Unlike the pigmen homes, this structure looked sound and rather inviting, with its rustic architecture. The Mystery Hack—oh. No, Shack. There was a large wooden letter laying haphazardly on the ground, as if it had fallen from its perch atop the roof. Wilson wondered if perhaps that’s what he’d crashed into the night prior.

Either way, he took a breath, smiled down at the two children, and politely asked,

“♪♫♩♬?”

Dipper and Mabel exchanged curious glances, something akin to shock on their faces. Wilson frowned slightly. Perhaps his question hadn't been quite clear enough. His noggin was still a bit scrambled. He cleared his throat and tried again, choosing his words as carefully as he could. Surely they spoke plain English, it was just a matter of getting all his frazzled little ducks in a row.

"♪♫♩♬♫♫!"

He smiled when he saw the dawning look of realization on the little girl’s face. She absolutely lit up, and he was sure that his question had gotten through loud and clear this time.

Excitedly, she turned to her brother - only to translate his mixed up, messed up request, Wilson assumed - and grabbed his arm. "Dipper! Do you know what this means!"

Wilson frowned a bit, off put by her exclamation. It meant he was looking to find out where he was. Didn't seem the sort of thing to get quite  _ that _ excited about.

Her brother seemed to share his sentiments, looking with a confused sort of gaze up at the scientist. His little noise of uncertainty was apparently more than enough for his sister to carry the conversation as she nearly shook his arm off.

"He speaks in  _ music! _ "

'Speaks in music'? Wilson wasn't exactly sure what she meant by that. Perhaps it was a colloquial term? He'd never ventured too far from his little home in New England, but he'd heard that folks elsewhere in the country often made little sense to those unfamiliar with the local vernacular. Maybe that's why the two kids seemed to be having such a difficult time understanding his question. A strange sort of relief washed over him as 'acute brain damage' quickly became a secondary possibility.

He was taken aback a moment as he suddenly found the little girl gripping at the hem of his waistcoat, big doleful eyes staring up at him with admiration.

"Please please please, say 'Mabel!'" she begged, and Wilson, no small amount alarmed and confused, obliged her. It was a charming name, Mabel, and much more proper than her brother's - Wilson had heard a number of names in his lifetime but this was the first time he'd ever met a young man named  _ Dipper _ . Quite the oddity.

"♫♩…♩♫?”

The little girl released him, ecstatic as she turned to her brother, arms thrown up in her excitement. "Did you hear that, Dipper? It's my name in trumpets!" She grinned from ear to ear.

"♩♫♬♩?" Wilson echoed curiously, his voice no more than a confused mutter.

It was then that he heard it. An odd distress gripped at his chest and tightened his throat. He hadn't noticed it before. His words came as naturally to him as they ever had. His lips formed all the right sounds and syllables, but all that issued from his throat was the harsh squawk of a trumpet. It sounded as though he'd swallowed half a brass band! A hand clasped at his throat as he squawked out a few more words - or notes, rather - in a tentative experiment. His own voice was long gone, replaced by this nonsensical fanfare.

Well it was no surprise the children couldn't understand him! Not only was he not speaking their language, he wasn't speaking language at all!

Okay. No reason to panic! He took a deep breath - those still hurt. He winced, and forced himself to let the worry pass. He turned his attention to the two kids again, patient and calm as he muttered, trying to keep his thoughts in line.

"Ford will know what to do," Dipper suggested to his twin, who was still alight at the man's musical tones. "Let's get him inside."

He began to lead Wilson back to the Shack, only to be stopped by his sister, who had very suddenly understood what her brother had said.

"Dipper! He's not some science experiment!" She loved her uncle Ford, but she'd seen him tackle creatures of the deep and battle powerful math wizards with his bare hands! And true, this strange man wasn't exactly a  _ monster _ , but she knew how overzealous her brother - and her uncle - could get in the face of some grand discovery.

At her words, Wilson chirped up excitedly. Just the thought that maybe he'd finally escaped the runes and touchstones and all the other damning nonsense the other world had to offer was enough to lift his spirits. Here there was  _ science _ , sweet  _ Science _ , something familiar that Wilson could sink his claws into.

Each step reminded the man exactly how much of a beating his already emaciated body had taken. He was tired, weak, aching, and eager to be understood by anyone - he wasn't particularly picky about who, not anymore.

"I know, I know," Dipper placated his sister as the strange musical man followed them into the shack. "But if anyone's going to help, it'll be uncle Ford."

He followed the kids, immediately thrown by the oddities inside.  Everything from the unnatural glow of the lamplights to the hulking form of what he could only assume was a Tyrannosaurus Rex skull conveniently placed at the side of a strange chair as if it were a table. He began organizing a list in his head, promising himself he would come back to investigate the strange devices and odd furnishings. Whatever curious place he'd landed himself in, it was certainly not the same as his secluded little home in Falmouth.

It was fortunate for Wilson, having just met the Pines, that Ford had managed to tear himself away from his subterranean study for the moment.

He cut an intimidating figure, he had to admit. The man looked quite a bit older than Wilson, with greying temples and a gruff sense about him. He looked Important with a capital I, knowledgeable. He felt a wave of relief wash through him. Maybe this man could help him.

Ford looked up, a bit surprised to see the newcomer trailing behind the kids. He was quick to decide this man wasn't a tourist. The kids rarely interacted with the folks his brother brought to the Shack, unless he'd somehow roped them into performing with him. Not to mention that the man was covered in bruises and grass stains and dirt, with a fair amount of wear and tear to his clothes- and, if he wasn't mistaken, tufts of grass poking out from his pockets. Surely not a tourist.

"Hello. And who might this be?" he asked.

"He was laying outside of the shack. We think he might be hurt," Dipper offered, and Wilson nodded in agreement. His - for lack of better word - crash landing the night prior had left him in quite a state, and though he would never have admitted it in the forests back  _ there _ , he was too worn and tired to pretend otherwise for these people.

"He can make trumpet noises with his mouth!" Mabel added excitedly, pointing in demonstration. Wilson considered it for a moment and nodded once more, perhaps a little hesitant to admit something he himself had no earthly understanding of. But her genuine excitement was almost contagious. He uttered a few notes, a quiet disharmonious clash of notes and syllables mashed into his speech.

This more than anything seemed to pique the man's interest. "Fascinating!" He exclaimed, setting his mug down to better assess the situation. "Bitonal speech! Where are you from?"

Wilson answered truthfully, not that he expected anyone to understand him. His trumpeting was still loud and clear. He told Ford his hometown: Falmouth, Massachusetts.

"No, no," Ford waved his answer away, disregarding it as if it were wrong entirely. Wilson frowned slightly. "I mean, where did you  _ come  _ from."

This question held a different sort of weight for the gentleman scientist, who felt a chill of dread run down his spine just at the thought. He'd come from a desolate nowhere, a place he'd been trapped and left for dead by some sadistic force or another, left to fight off impossible creatures and somehow survive a murderous world. He wet his lips and mumbled his answer.

"♪♫♩♫..."

Ford seemed rapt with attention. "I see. Well." The man cleared his throat, and broke out into a warm grin. "Welcome to Gravity Falls, Oregon, son!"

Oregon. Wilson's attention snapped up. He was in Oregon? Well, that hadn't been quite the answer he was expecting with all the odd goings on here, but he'd take it! At the very least he was back in the states, finally free from that purgatory of shadows. He let out a deep sigh, a genuine grin stretching across his features.

"Wait a minute... you can understand him?" Dipper asked, and while Wilson was usually a very astute man, he had to admit the joy of being understood had overwhelmed his more inquisitive side. Honestly he hadn't even thought to question that, but was glad that this boy, Dipper, had thought to bring it up.

“Simple multidimensional hearing aid.” Ford said, one finger deftly removing the clip of the aid from over his ear. It was quite a bit smaller than a usual hearing aid, and Wilson looked on in interest as Ford showed the piece off. “Filters out any reality skew from multidimensional beings, like yourself. Clearly, wherever you were was an odd place foreign to this plane of existence. Reality’s simply having trouble translating your being here. Nothing to worry about, so long as you can understand a Harmon.” He said with a grin.

“♬♪♪♩??” Wilson asked, looking up at Ford with a newfound interest and respect. Another scientist! That alone was enough to put his frazzled nerves at ease. It was easy to trust a man of science, especially after coming from a world where the laws of physics and even man’s own mortality meant nothing.

“Indeed!” he said with an assured nod. “My life’s work resides here in Gravity Falls! I study the odd and the inexplicable, putting science to anomalies like yourself, Mr…?”

“♫♬♩♪♫♫♪♪!” He said proudly. Wilson Percival Higgsbury, genius scientist and – as of late – daring adventurer!

“--Mr. Wilson Higgsbury! Nothing to worry about, of course. As far as the Pines are concerned, you’re officially a Guest here, if you need a place to stay until we figure this little interdimensional hiccup out!”

Despite the persistent ache of his worn body and the near-concussion he’d been gifted with upon his arrival, this was quickly becoming the best day Wilson had had in much longer than he could remember. These people were kind to him, and on top of finally being free, he was being allowed more security in a resting place than he’d known since he’d been whisked away from his cottage God only knew how long ago.

He moved forward with an excited fervor, shaking Ford’s hand with more enthusiasm and appreciation than he’d felt in a while.

There was a shrill, delighted squeal just moments before Wilson felt tiny arms around his middle – thankfully just short enough to fall below his bruised ribs. It threw him slightly off balance, but he still grinned down at the overexcited little girl.

“You know what this calls for!” Mabel said.

“Mabel, no--“

She threw her arms excitedly into the air. “A science celebration!”

“No—no science celebrations, Mabel,” Dipper said, trying to reign his sister in in front of the two adults. “I’m sure Mr. Higgsbury just wants to get some rest.”

“Good thinking, Dipper.” Ford agreed. “After your little adventure, a good sleep will do you wonders,” he said to Wilson, who was fairly certain “little adventure” didn’t quite begin to describe his experience. “We’ll stage you in my old room – I never use it anymore. Most nights I sleep down in the lab,” he offered, and Wilson, despite everything, couldn’t help but feel a familiar intrigue at the thought of a home laboratory.

But for now he followed Ford, who showed him to his new quarters. There was a couch, and a workspace, and a washroom – more than Wilson had had access to since he activated the machine back in his attic. More than he, at times, had ever expected to see again.

And, with the assurance that Ford would have a miracle salve ready for Wilson by sun-up tomorrow, the man was left alone to his new quarters.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was still fairly well convinced that this was all some sort of fever dream – or worse yet, a cruel trick by the voice in the radio to teach him the consequences of trying to escape. But he forced himself to put those thoughts from his mind, to take such fortune and the kindness of strangers at face value.

He entered the washroom, finding a number of unusual appliances. He wondered to himself exactly what sort of odd version of America he’d managed his way back to, but the idea of bathing someplace that wasn’t home to fish the size of housecats with large, bulging, glassy black eyes that stared up at him as they swam by was more than enough for him to accept the oddity of the washroom without much more than a second thought.

He explored the area curiously, at least grateful he was able to figure out the basin. With the turn of a handle, the water rushed from the faucet – that seemed to be the basis for all of the appliances.

With one hand at his hip and the other propping up his chin, he examined the single large, bulky handle set in the wall behind the curtain of what he assumed to be a bath. One spindly hand reached out and turned the knob, only for him to be greeted by a hissing and sputtering sound as the showerhead came to life, spraying the man in the face with no little force. He coughed and spluttered, not unlike the plumbing, stumbling back away from the shower.

Well! Mission accomplished! In a sort of unfortunate round-about way…

No matter! He was willing to take what he could get at this point - water was water, after all - and he was eager to be rid of the sheen of dirt and sweat that had claimed him as its home.

He locked the door to the bathroom and undressed, climbing into the peculiar bath.

Birds squawked, flying from their perches in the nearby trees as a loud, graceless trumpeting fanfare echoed through the Mystery Shack as Wilson stepped directly under a stream of scalding hot water.


	3. No More Sousaphoning in the House

The hot water had done wonders for his sore limbs, once he’d managed to get it to a reasonable temperature. He hadn’t realized just how exhausted he was until he’d stepped out of the washroom, only to find that the couch cushions suddenly seemed very inviting.

As if their hospitality hadn’t already been enough, Wilson found a small pile of belongings on the couch, arranged neatly against one of the arm rests. Clothes. They were clothes. It hadn’t even crossed his mind that his old shirt and waistcoat were dreadfully unclean now, after so long in the wilderness. The clean clothes were soft and comfortable, if not rather large for his meager frame. He suspected they belonged to the older Pines gentleman – a simple white button up that seemed to make Wilson disappear within it, and black dress pants. He rolled the sleeves up, managing to at least free his hands, and his own belt managed well for the oversized pants. Set atop the pile had been a note.

“Join me downstairs when you’re ready. –Ford”

He stared down at it for a long time. He was still having a bit of a hard time processing all of this. These people were so nice.  _ Why? _ What could he possibly offer them in return? He’d come here with nothing but the clothes on his back and a grim determination that was slowly being cast aside in favor of the familiar comforts they gifted him. Shelter, company, proper grooming – none of it added up for him. Even from his other life, long past in Falmouth, he couldn’t recall ever being shown this kind of genuine charity. Everyone in the little town had considered him a deviant. A loon living up in the mountains; a daft recluse tinkering with his pointless little experiments. Even before the machine and the endless woods he’d traversed, it had been so long since he’d met people like the Pines family, who welcomed a stranger into their home, gave him shelter and a patient understanding he’d never expected.

Adjusting the sleeves of the shirt one last time – they didn’t seem to want to stay above his elbows – he opened the bedroom door and made his way through the Mystery Shack back to where he’d first met Ford in the kitchen.

“Ah! Perfect timing, Mr. Higgsbury!” Ford boomed, his voice strong and deep. It was a commanding sort of voice, very unlike Wilson’s. It was the sort of voice that demanded respect and attention. He gestured for the gentleman scientist to take a seat at the kitchen table, and moved to fetch him a mug not unlike his own: a plain light tan, filled to the brim with strong black coffee.

He set it down in front of Wilson with a delicate clink as it rested against the wood, and all he could do for a moment was stare down at it in that same distracted manner, his hands creeping up of their own accord to wrap around the warm mug, letting the comfortable heat seep into his palms. The bandage was still wound tightly around his right palm where he’d slit it, but the warmth felt immeasurably good even through the spider’s silk.

He was much more a tea sort of person. Back in Falmouth, he’d sometimes subsist on nothing but hot tea with sugar and milk for days at a time until his body protested so fiercely it forced him to step away from his work to satiate his need for real sustenance. He’d found himself longing for a hot cup of tea more times than he could count during the unforgiving rains in the woods where he’d been trapped. He’d long held the hope of somehow stumbling across a  _ Camellia sinensis _ tree somewhere out in the endless expanse of varying landscapes, but of course it had been a fruitless hope to hold out.

Wilson had never had the palate for coffee. He more often than not found it far too pungent, too strong. It was a drink that often left him with a bitter taste in his mouth and a racing heart. But now as it was placed in front of him, steaming and frothing slightly where the liquid met the mug, he held no reservations, and lifted the mug to his lips without so much as a whit of hesitation. It was warm and strong and coursed through him, chasing the chill of the shadows from his bones. It was such a stark difference from his usual drinks as of late; there was scarce little in the woodlands where he’d come from aside from the rainwater he’d boil and let cool, or – if he was feeling particularly indulgent, hot water laced with honey drippings from a nearby beehive he’d found.

The strong flavor of the freshly brewed coffee was a welcome change, and Wilson made a delicate little discordant hum into the mug as Ford sat himself across the table with his own cup. He watched Wilson carefully, keenly observant of the odd man who sat before him.

Early thirties, severely malnourished, exhausted. They were simple conclusions to come to just by looking at him, but important ones nonetheless. Ford wondered exactly what this man had been through before coming to Gravity Falls.

Oh, he was hardly surprised by his arrival. The sleepy town of Gravity Falls had long been a magnet for all things odd and unusual and Mr. Higgsbury, given his extraordinary circumstances, was no exception to that rule. Ford, being a curious man, naturally wanted to know as much about this stranger and his journey as possible, but he realized it may not be the topic of the hour for him, not after just having escaped it all.

He remembered stepping through the portal. After thirty years, finally seeing his own labs again, seeing his brother and these two children who looked so strikingly familiar. It had been an unbelievable homecoming and a great shock, so much happening at once – and while he’d been willing to disclose some of his rocky past with his brother at the kids’ request once he’d gotten home, telling them the tragic tale that had led to his exile in another dimension, he rarely talked about the experience itself.

He understood that Wilson might not want to talk about it, but ultimately, Ford thought the man might like to know he had a kindred spirit who understood what kind of long-lasting effects a dangerous purgatory like that had on a man’s psyche.

“Now, Mr. Higgsbury…” he started, and Wilson looked up at him expectantly. He wasn’t sure what was going through the man’s mind in that moment, but he was wholly attentive. His eyes were bright and intelligent beneath the mask of exhaustion. A calculating mind. “…I understand you’ve been under some distress for quite some time. Believe me, I understand,” he said, one six-fingered hand splayed across his chest. “But at your discretion, I would like to better understand the dimension – the world you came from. It sounds as if there are powerful forces at work that kept you trapped there – forces not unlike ones we’ve dealt with before,” he said grimly. “So I understand the danger inherent in associating with beings like that. It’s my job to keep those kinds of things from harming people here in Gravity Falls. I can only do that if you allow me to better understand the kind of place you came from.”

Wilson didn’t particularly like where this was going. He’d worked very hard to suppress the horror of the forest he’d been trapped in for so long – the bizarre creatures and the hungry, living darkness that lurked in every shadow. He’d had to, if he’d meant to retain even a scrap of sanity through the whole ordeal. He wasn’t sure he was exactly ready to delve deep enough to dredge it all up, firsthand accounts of being accosted in the dark, having his flesh torn into by some invisible creature – or worse, staring down the gaping, frothing maw of death itself as a pack of hounds, wild and surreal, with stark white eyes and fur as black and smoky as the shadows themselves hunted him for miles, his legs screaming for relief as he forced himself to keep moving, keep running, keep breathing—

He blinked.

His knuckles were white against the mug as he clutched it so tightly he feared it may crack under the sheer pressure of his grip. Slowly, he released it and shook his head.

It was the only thing this man had asked of him, after giving him a place to stay, and yet Wilson couldn’t even do that for him. It was shameful.

“I don’t expect you to discuss everything that happened to you,” Ford said, his strong voice tinged with understanding. He reached into his coat and pulled something forth, laying it on the table between them.

A book, plain and unassuming, bound in red and gold. In the center of the front cover was a handprint bearing six fingers, the palm blank.

“I’ve chronicled my findings in Gravity Falls in a series of journals. This one,” he tapped the cover, “is officially yours. If you find you don’t need it, then by all means, leave it blank!  But I always find that putting these things down on paper serves a great deal to get them out of your head.”

Wilson reached tentatively, lifting the blank tome and looking at it before lifting his gaze to Ford.

“♫♩♩♫?”

Ford shifted, giving a bit of a grim nod. “Absolutely.” He adjusted his glasses. “Thirty years, actually. Mr. Higgsbury, don’t remain under the illusion that science and my studies are my only motives here. I may not know the specifics of your experiences, but I know what it’s like, being trapped, forced to fight to survive. I’m no stranger to stubborn perseverance,” he said with a wry grin.

Wilson set the book down, laying his hands atop it neatly as he looked down at the six-fingered decal. He hadn’t been out there in those woods for anything close to thirty years, that much he was sure of, but knowing that Ford understood the strain of constantly finding yourself struggling to survive, staving off the dark and keeping your strength up as best you could… it lifted an immense weight off his shoulders.

He looked up at the man once more, tired and grateful.

“♪♩♩♬♪♫♪♪!”

“♫♩♩♫♫♪…♩♪♫…”

“♩♩♫♬♪♪!”

He talked in bursts, his hands moving in sharp, animated gestures as he explained himself as best he could to Ford. Wilson told him what he knew – the voice in the radio, the pigmen and the bizarre creatures that lived in the world, the wooden thing and the device he’d constructed, painted with his own blood.

Wilson feared it all sounded like a fantastic story, unbelievable even to someone like Ford. The account certainly sounded like the ramblings of a madman, there was no doubt about that, and Wilson would readily admit it – but it was all true.

He chewed absently on his lip when he’d exhausted himself. He’d purposely left out the bits about the creeping darkness, the chill it sent through his blood, the shadows moving in the corners of his vision – all that seemed too damning, to him. Seeing visions that weren’t there, cowering in fear of the dark… the mark of a madman indeed.

“Ah,” Ford hummed when he’d finished his tale, “The infinite allure of untold knowledge. Many a scientist’s downfall, I’d wager.”

It had been a long time, but Stanford never forgot the original drive – an unbelievable discovery that would change the course of human history, mark him a lauded intellectual. When he’d been praised and given the chance at otherworldly knowledge, a gateway to becoming the great and respected man he always knew he was meant to be, he’d jumped at the chance without so much as a second thought. He knew Wilson was the same; a scientist driven by the need to create, to delve deeper than any human had before, to impress.

“♫♩♩♬♪?”

Ford had opened his mouth to answer – it was only fair, after all, that Mr. Higgsbury be granted the same confidence he’d granted to Stanford on the matter – but was cut off by another loud, abrasive voice.

“Look Dipper, I thought we agreed no more sousaphoning in the house.”

Wilson scooped up the blank journal and twisted in his chair, looking back at the older man – he looked strikingly similar to Ford. Another set of twins! How peculiar, he thought absently, staring up at the brother with some uncertainty.

“Ah, Stanley! Perfect timing!” Ford said, standing in one swift motion. “I’d like you to meet Mr. Wilson Higgsbury – he’ll be staying with us until further notice.”

Stanley looked down at the stringy man with some skepticism. "What is he, some sort of weird musician?" he asked, regarding his brother with a confused glance.

Wilson let out an indignant little squeak.

"Actually, he's my new assistant." Ford said. "I've been needing an extra hand in the lab lately, and Mr. Higgsbury here is quite the experienced scientist!"

Stan snorted. "He sounds like a one man band! Say, pal-" Wilson locked up, his heart lurching in his chest and his blood running cold as Stan kept talking, heedless of the gentleman's discomfort. "If you ever need a break from my brother's lab, come see me. You'd make a great addition to the Mystery Tour. I can see it already: World's Second-Noisiest Scientist!" he said, spreading his hands as if emulating a banner. He was grinning wide, clearly joking, but Wilson couldn't seem to find the humor in it. "Sorry to say that the crowning honor of first belongs to my brother!"

Wilson stood, the legs of his chair scraping noisily against the linoleum of the floor. His legs didn't seem to work right, too wobbly and feeling a bit like jelly beneath him as he picked himself up and left without so much as another word.

_ Say, pal. _

Wilson had never believed in fate or omens or anything of that mystical sort. He was a devoted believer of the Sciences, of chance and probability and the random, chaotic nature of the universe.

But hearing those words again, here of all places…

His hands trembled slightly as he closed the bedroom door behind him, locking it shut and sitting himself down heavily on the couch in the middle of the room.

He took a deep breath, still feeling the twinge of a bruise against his ribs, but not nearly as badly as he had before.

It was a coincidence, he told himself. A poor choice of words, is all.

He considered what Stanford had said. He studied things – unspeakable things, horrors and creatures even Wilson couldn’t fathom – all to better understand how to fight them. He considered what Stanford had said about getting these nightmarish creatures out of his head, letting them live their lives in ink and paper just to give himself some peace. He was more than a little dubious about how effective that might be, but he trusted Stanford immensely. He’d never expected to get out of the forest alive, let alone to stumble right into someone who comparatively understood what he had endured out there.

Ford had offered him shelter and company – and now, a chance to gather his wits, to sort through the uncanny experiences he’d had out there, to better make sense of his own lingering fears and reservations. He hadn’t quite realized how strong his instincts had become since his stay in the purgatory he’d come from. The urge to gather supplies hadn’t yet subsided; the initial reaction of expectant fear when he’d heard those words; the pang of distress that cut through him when he looked out the windows of the Mystery Shack to the skyline of tall pine trees that stretched for miles.

So much had happened in the last twenty four hours and he realized it was beginning to catch up with him.

He looked down at the journal clutched in his arms.

Nimble fingers flipped through the old blank pages, soft and crisp and never touched by ink or charcoal.

So many creatures stood stark in his mind. The tall, misshapen form of the birds that stalked the savannahs, the hulking pigmen with their upturned snouts and beady eyes. The creatures that lurked in the back of his mind, scuttling around as if just waiting for him to drop his guard enough to manifest in the real world and drag him down again.

So many observations and anecdotes to share, to put down on paper in a gesture of finality. A scientific record of sorts.

Wilson was good at a great many things. He was an inventor and a scholar, and now a rugged survivor. He’d learned to hunt – that one was new. He was a brilliant scientist, and a fair calligrapher. He’d taken a class some time ago, learning the basics of artistry to further his ability to diagram such things as his intricate experiments. 

He took Ford’s words to heart and plucked the pen from the spine of the book where it had been tucked. He regarded the pen for a moment, noticing that his hands had stopped trembling with this new, empowering line of thought.

Quietly, and with a fresh determination to spite the unforgiving world he’d escaped, Wilson put the tip of the pen to the blank parchment and began to write.


	4. Nothing Good Ever Happens in the Bunker

The sun here wasn’t nearly as cruel as it had been back in that place. Despite it being the height of summer, the heat was joined by a cooling breeze, unlike the stagnant, stale air of the woodlands. It was more than just bearable. Once Wilson had shaved the rather impressive beard he’d been growing and was back in his own, now blessedly clean clothes, the summer warmth was actually fairly comfortable compared to the temperatures he’d endured in the forest.

Mabel watched him from the porch as he sat on the grass, fingers carefully plucking away at the foliage as he weaved. It was something he’d learned in the forests out there. He’d learned quite a few unusual skills, but that was the funny thing about survival: it was purely out of necessity. Either you taught yourself how to do certain things or you perished. He’d stumbled across more than a handful of what he could only assume were previous victims, people who were dragged into the inescapable hell only to die of hunger or thirst or something more sinister that lurked in the woods.

He’d always tell himself, ‘better them than me.’ It was a thought that had crossed his mind more than once, one that he absolutely loathed but knew he believed entirely. Better them than him.

No sane man would want to die out there, alone and afraid.

His fingers were quick and skilled as he folded the thin leaves he’d gathered at the edge of the forest behind the Mystery Shack. She was impressed with his work – anyone who had a talent for crafts like that was alright in her book.

Blades of grass crunched beneath her shoes as she moved across the open field to him, her twin brother close behind. Dipper still hadn’t decided how to feel about this mysterious newcomer. Of course, mystery wasn’t anything new here in Gravity Falls, but having a strange man fall out of the sky onto your house, who didn’t seem to speak any English and who seemed to be a nervous wreck about it all, spouting to his uncle about other worlds and monsters… Dipper just didn’t know where this man stood yet.

He perked up long before they’d reached him, his ears keen to the sound of something drawing near. His head snapped up and when he saw the two kids, he visibly relaxed, giving them a little friendly fanfare in greeting before turning his attention back to his work.

Mabel grinned from ear to ear, hearing his strange way of talking. He might not have really said anything, but the tone was still there, friendly and warm as he regarded the kids. It was a pleasant little not-tune that he mumbled, and the twins looked over his shoulder.

She gasped, spying his handiwork. “I didn’t know you were so good at arts and crafts!” she said as he lifted the makeshift bag to examine the weaving. It was a cross body messenger bag, just large enough to house the new journal. Wilson wasn’t exactly keen to leave it laying around, but carrying it throughout the few days he’d been with the Pines had gotten cumbersome, as he rather needed his hands to help Ford clean out the abandoned bunker deep in the forest.

“♫♩♬♬, ♪♩♩♫.”

Mabel grinned as she pushed up on the flower crown she’d made to keep it out of her eyes. “I have no idea what you just said,” she admitted flatly, the tone of sunshine never leaving her voice.

Wilson couldn’t help but grin and chuckle, the same trilling trumpet sounds issuing forth in place of his own laughter.

Dipper stooped down, lifting the unusual tome from the grass where Wilson had carefully laid it until his work was done. He frowned deeply. “Where’d you get one of Ford’s journals?” he asked, beginning to flip through the carefully detailed pages. He caught glimpses of unusual creatures, things he’d never seen in any of Ford’s books written in a hand that, after so long studying the three journals, Dipper was certain didn’t belong to his uncle.

When the book was snapped shut, nearly catching his fingers before Wilson yanked it away with a wide-eyed, panicked sort of look, it dawned on Dipper that Wilson himself had filled that journal. What sort of otherworldly creatures had this man encountered? They weren’t anything Dipper had ever seen around Gravity Falls.

Where had he come from?

Wilson trumpeted nervously as he placed the book into the newly finished bag, closing the top flap and hiding it away from the kids, his knees still buried in the low growing grass as he kneeled before the kids.

Mabel looked at him curiously, an idea striking her as she lifted the flower crown from her head. “Bwop!” she chimed, placing it atop his head. It settled over his hair, falling down over his brow, soft petals in an array of different colors that she’d carefully woven together. He looked up at her in surprise. She grinned. “You can’t be upset when there’s nature in your hair!” she bubbled, and Wilson was pleased to find that she was absolutely right.

He stood, brushing off the knees of his pants, which were hopelessly grass-stained anyway, and smiled down at her. Unable to properly thank her for her little gift, he patted her head and trumpeted kindly, a more understandable substitute.

Her twin brother found his gaze glued to the finely woven knapsack Wilson now wore slung across his shoulders. The book fell at his hip, and Dipper’s fingers clutched into fists at the thought of somehow getting his hands on it, just long enough to better read what kind of bizarre creatures this man had encountered, to read of what kind of weird beings lived in other worlds.

There was a hand at Wilson’s hip, and he was moving the knapsack around to his back, waving at the kids as he moved past the breach of trees that surrounded the Shack, off into the forest to find Ford at the bunker.

Wilson's grip remained tight as he kept a steady pace through the forests. He reminded himself more than once that he didn't need to run or race against the dwindling sunlight. These forests were peaceful; there were no mutant spiders or territorial pigmen prowling for their next meal. There were no crawling shadows. Just trees and birds and the occasional butterfly fluttering in the breeze. It was a pleasant place, he tried to convince himself. It would be so much easier to believe had he not spent an ungodly amount of time in the woods alone with no shelter and little means of defending himself.

He cleared his throat, burying those thoughts away. Now was not the time to dwell on such things. He was a scientist in a once-in-a-lifetime partnership, studying in a field yet unexplored by the proper scientific community. He was a pioneer of the sciences behind Gravity Falls! Surely he would be a lauded man of science.

After walking some distance, he spied the downwards spiral of the bunker entrance and began his descent. Sunlight was strangled the further down he went, replaced by the electric glow of free hanging halogen light bulbs. It was strange and hurt his eyes if he looked directly at them, but it was still better than the darkness. His footsteps clanged on each metal platform, the sound echoing through the hollow tunnel as he made his way to the laboratory beneath.

Wilson was, admittedly, rather nervous about this. He'd never worked in a partnership before. All of his previous scientific endeavors had been him, alone in his attic with no more than the static of his radio for company. He had never had another scholarly mind to compete with, to impress.

Wilson thought back to the numerous nights he spent scrubbing the char off of his equipment and workspace and, more often than he would care to admit, his face.

He deeply hoped Stanford Pines' science involved as little chemistry as possible.

The bunker halls were small and narrow and cramped - it was nearly enough to give a man claustrophobia. Dirt and gravel crunched beneath his shoes and the halls smelled like damp earth, roots creeping into the small space, poking out of the dirt into the stagnant air of the hallway.

He clutched the strap of his little satchel, giving his hands something to do other than wring nervously. He didn't like this place. It reminded him of the caves beneath the forests, hollow and earthy and lit only by the most meager of glows.

He heard clanging off in the distance, just beyond the first door. He could see that at one point it may have been used as a vault lock - the entire bunker seemed to be sealed for what Wilson could only assume was a doomsday scenario – they were not unlike the bunkers that he’d seen during the height of the war. But this one was secret, peculiar, and connected to the open space of the laboratory.

There was all the standard safety equipment, of course. Wilson was glad to see that was one thing that hadn’t changed. He pulled on a pair of gloves – one of the few pairs with only five fingers to them – and let the goggles hang around his neck as he tied the apron around his scrawny waist.

“Getting in touch with nature, I see.” Wilson heard, and turned to find Ford, grinning from ear to ear and holding a smoldering piece of something that now had one less tentacle. He nodded up to the flower crown that still sat atop Wilson’s head, and Wilson gave a start. The weight was comfortable and familiar, and he’d honestly forgotten it was there during his unnerving walk to the bunker.

The tips of his ears pinked when he realized he’d waltzed into the bunker wearing an elaborately made flower crown, of all things, but Ford could only laugh, a delighted sound that boomed and echoed off the metal framework of the bunker. “Mabel got to you too, huh Higgsbury?” he asked, grinning and clapping the man on the shoulder.

He blinked for a moment, and then split into a grin.

“♪♫♪♩♬♪…” he admitted sheepishly, one gloved hand gently adjusting the flower crown Mabel had given him. He remembered making these himself back in the woods. It was peaceful, to pick the flowers and sit and weave them into something so charming. They’d been something to focus on other than the harrowing trek back to his poorly constructed camp, able to be made as he walked, and smelling delightful until the flowers began to wilt. “♩♩♫♬♪? ♩♩♫♪♪…”

“Sure does. That girl could just about bring world peace with that attitude of hers,” he said, cleaning the tentacle and handing it off to Wilson, who examined it curiously. “I fully believe in ten minutes flat she could have multiple world leaders wearing flower crowns and taking ‘who’s your celebrity soulmate’ quizzes together.”

Wilson laughed, a wheezing trumpety noise that bounced gracelessly off the walls. He gathered himself, and looked to the slimy tentacle in his hands.

“…♩♫♬?”

“Hmm? Oh that? It’s lunch!”

Wilson’s movements slowed, and he looked down at it again. It was a sickly green with purple spots and pale white suction cups lining the underbelly of the limb. It, in Wilson’s humble opinion, did  _ not _ look appetizing- and he’d eaten some questionable things in the past.

“♬♪♫?”

“No, not for us! For him.” Ford led his new partner through an airlock, into another vast room peppered with what looked like holding tubes much larger than any person. Wilson looked on in wonder, barely even able to fathom what sort of unnatural creatures these things may hold.

Only one of them seemed to be activated – indeed, a good many of them were broken, the glass smashed beyond hope and the wiring exposed, dangling uselessly from the inside of the tubes. He couldn’t help but wonder how they’d come to be in such a state of disrepair. He had to admit, everything in the bunker looked rather old; more than one stack of boxes he’d passed on his way in were covered in a layer of dust at least an inch thick. But these tubes… they looked almost dismantled. It was an unsettling notion to say the least, but Wilson was more concerned at the moment with deciphering Ford’s odd declaration

There didn’t seem to be anyone in any of these pods. Even the three that were activated, a strange chill overcoming the glass, seemed to be empty.

He took a step closer, and his heart lurched into his throat.

He’d only been at the Mystery Shack for a few days, but the thing inside the frozen glass was unmistakably Dipper, right down to the little glyph of a common pine tree on the front of his peculiar hat.

Now, in no way was Wilson daft enough to think that this being was the same little boy he’d interacted with only an hour prior, but to so suddenly see him trapped away in ice like this was a little startling. He honked in concern, his trumpets trailing across different octaves and pitches as he looked back at Ford.

“Meet Experiment 210,” he said grimly. “The Shapeshifter. Unfortunately, my great niece and nephew had an encounter with it while I was still trapped in another dimension, hence the form. Don’t let it fool you – it’s a remarkably intelligent creature, able to take the form of anything it sees. Luckily for us, it’s been trapped down here for thirty years, so the odds of it escaping into town are slim to none. But it can’t live indefinitely in cryogenic storage. It’s been just under a year since the kids locked it away, and if we mean to keep it alive, it has to eat.”

Wilson sure understood that sentiment.

He held up the tentacle curiously. “♪♪♫?”

“Indeed, Mr. Higgsbury! I’ve laced the shifter’s lunch with a heavy sedative. Feed it, and avoid it at all costs, and within no more than a few moments it will fall unconscious, which will allow us to place it back in storage. Understood?”

Wilson nodded.

With that, Ford moved to the controls, locking the chamber door behind him and letting Wilson watch as he began the process of defrosting the creature inside the cryogenic storage tube. It was a bizarre, otherworldly science to this man, who had never seen half of this technology in his life before, but if there was one thing he’d become good at, it was accepting the uncanny and adapting at the drop of a hat.

“Brace yourself, Higgsbury!” he heard over the speakers.

Higgsbury didn’t exactly know what to brace himself for, and couldn’t help but feel like he was going into this experiment wildly unprepared. When Stanford deactivated the strange, icy machine, the inside of the holding tube filled with a deep, opaque steam as the entire thing defrosted far more quickly than was entirely reasonable.

He blinked into the dense white discharge, trying to make out the form of the young Pines boy. The darker shapes in the steam were all wrong.

He quietly reminded himself that this thing was indeed a shape shifter, and that it wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility for it to, say, shift its shape.

He squinted, trying to make out the shapes – it was entirely too tall to be anything close to resembling Dipper, now. Though not too terribly studied in human anatomy, Wilson was relatively certain that the proportions were all wrong for a child.

It almost looked—

Oh.

Oh, goodness.

Wilson took a few steps backwards, careful not to trip over any of the clunky, exposed wires that trailed across the unfinished concrete floor. He put a wide berth between him and the stasis tube, staring intently and skipping right to the ‘avoid at all costs’ stage of the experiment.

As the steam cleared, the shape shifter stepped out of its icy prison. One pale, thin hand braced against the opened front of the chamber for balance as the rest of the creature emerged from the steam.

It was a thin man of no more than six feet, with gaunt features and wild, flyaway black hair. The thing took a deep breath, adjusting the tattered red waistcoat it wore, and looked up at Wilson with a sour sort of look.

Out of the cryogenic storage chamber stepped an extremely displeased Wilson Percival Higgsbury.


	5. This Feels Familiar, Somehow...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, 
> 
> First off, please let me apologize for letting this go by the wayside for so long. I got caught up in so much with finally getting back into college and then some personal projects and my manuscripts and other writing that Don't Starve actually took a big back seat recently. Heck, ao3 took a back seat too. 
> 
> But you guys really seem to enjoy this one! You guys have all been so kind and patient with me despite how long it's been postponed. I have one or two more chapters already written up for the future, so I'm not going to disappear for so long again, but I'm not entirely sure how tight a schedule I'm going to be able to keep.
> 
> This story is being written on the fly, which I'm slowly getting used to again after five years of working and reworking manuscripts. I do have vague plans for the future of this story, though, so I'm hoping that as long as I have that direction, I can still manage to keep up with this one. Sometime soon I'm going to sit down and outline the rest of this so that I have a better idea of how to wrap it all up in the end. 
> 
> Again, thank you so much for being so patient. I really am grateful that you all like Doorway to Adventure so much, and I hope you enjoy this new chapter and the chapter (that I promise!) will come in the future. 
> 
> Happy Reading!  
> -Daisy

Wilson stared, wide-eyed, at his doppelganger. It was like looking in a mirror and seeing all the wrong things. This other him seemed to size him up, looking him over as it emerged from the chamber.

“Higgsbury! What’s going on in there?” came the voice from the heavens. It boomed through the testing chamber, and made Wilson jump a little at how sudden and loud it was.

The shape shifter looked up, equal parts curious and annoyed at the sound of that familiar voice. “So, you’re working with the six-fingered brainiac,” he said, and Wilson felt the beginnings of a headache coming on. It was so surreal, to hear this deep, monstrous voice coming from his own body.

There was a hard, bellowing laugh; Wilson winced.

“You don’t have any idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, do you?” it asked, the question sharp and cutting, laced with condescension and an undeniable anger.

Wilson, in fact, did not.

He was rarely given any real insight these days. He’d learned to question everything – nothing was ever what it seemed, and everything was dangerous unless proven otherwise. But even that assumption lacked any concrete proof. Especially now, in Gravity Falls! Things seemed to be going relatively well since he’d landed at the Mystery Shack. He’d like to think that perhaps things were looking up for him! But he knew, from a long and arduous stay in those damned woods, that when things seemed to be looking up, it was usually when you were walking headlong into another disaster.

His clutched the offering of a meal tight, drawing it to his chest as he frowned deeply, looking at this strange reflection with some concern.

Very quietly, he shook his head.

“Higgsbury!” came Ford’s booming voice again, and this other him grinned, a toothy smile that made him look very unlike himself.

“Just like old Sixer, to take on a naïve, wide-eyed kid to play his little henchman! Don’t be fooled – you’re just as disposable to him as his last partner!”

Last partner?

Those words sat heavily in his stomach, a black weight that sent a thousand crawling jitters up his spine. Of course it had occurred to him that this particular line of science might be more dangerous than simple observational studies. Any field work had its risks, of course, but he’d assumed that Stanford was experienced in these things, capable of training his new partner in a field very foreign to him.

It suddenly occurred to him that he was currently locked in a room with a bizarre, malicious shape shifter who was most likely more than a little cranky after his involuntary year long nap.

“Wilson!” came the voice again, louder and more urgent than before. He snapped out of his train of thought as he looked up at the creature before him, an unpleasant shock going through his entire body as he realized that it was much closer to him now than it had been before.

He let out an alarmed little squawk, jumping when he realized that the thing had moved so close, and ducking just in time to meet the force of its tackle with the entirety of his upper body. It knocked him backwards, remarkably strong for inhabiting such a frail form, and Wilson gave himself – the creature, that is – a swift kick in the ribs.

It howled, the force enough to knock it off of the man for a moment, allowing him enough time to pick himself up and scramble away from the breathless abomination. It coughed and sputtered, the human form weak and unpleasantly vulnerable. He looked up at Wilson, and froze.

While the idiot scientist was an interesting target, the shape shifter had other priorities. He ignored the man habitually holding the chunk of tentacle out as if it were a dangerous weapon to be intimidated by rather than lunch, and stooped down. He lifted something from the dusty concrete floor where Wilson had fallen, next to where the flower crown lay, now falling apart.

“Another one?” the thing asked, sounded a bit perplexed.

Wilson’s heart lurched, and his hand flew to the empty satchel at his hip – the book! It had fallen out when he’d been knocked down, and now that thing had his only record of the other world-

There was the sound of rustling pages. “Yes… yes! Incredible!” it exclaimed, its voice still very unsettling coming from Wilson’s body.

The gentleman scientist watched on in muted horror as his doppelganger began to lose its form, the skin stretching and limbs deforming, leaving Wilson’s form a mangled mess before, all at once, it began to change. The skin turned a sickly pink ashen color, and Wilson’s features began to shift in a grotesque manner, his nose turning up as large tusks jutted from his upper jaw like those of a boar. His shoulders widened and hunched slightly.

The form snorted, the very same sound he’d heard from the angered pigmen back in the forests when he’d been unlucky enough to wander into one of their camps, doing his best to make a hasty retreat before one or more of them felt threatened enough by his presence to attack.

With a flip of the page, the form began changing again. The beast’s eyes separated like cells undergoing mitosis, blinking in octuplets up at him as the round, hairy body of an arachnid the size of a dog snarled up at him.

Another page, another transformation, and Wilson stepped back in alarm.

The snarling continued, much deeper in pitch now, more of a growl than the hiss the spider had made. Massive jaws lined with sharp teeth and pitch black fur that shone a terrible, otherworldly purple under the halogen lamp lights skulked towards him, the powerful legs and arching back of the hound every bit as intimidating as he remembered.

Wilson’s breath came in shallow, terrified little gasps as he backed away, keeping distance between himself and the hound as it advanced on him with slow, deliberate steps. It snarled and growled and snapped its jaws at him, and he could swear it was grinning, a sick delight on its features as the shape shifter slowly worked on backing the man into a corner.

His hands trembled as he dropped the tentacle, watching as the beast snatched it up in its jaws, razor sharp teeth tearing it to shreds as it shook it about.

Old scars began itching with the remembered feeling of claws and teeth from a time when he hadn’t known any better, as he watched the beast devour the flesh of whatever poor animal that odd cut had been from.

It licked its jowls, baring its fangs to the man as its sticky, viscous drool dropped in globs to the concrete, salivating.  

“Face it!” it snarled, its mouth moving in an unnatural way, too human movements for such a feral beast. Its whole face dissolved into sudden expression, and Wilson felt a pang in between his eyes. “You know how you’ll end up! Half out of your mind, a kooky old loon shunned from society, all because of the portal – just like his last partner!”

With a sinking feeling, he suddenly regretted the time he’d spent in Gravity Falls – he’d been too lax, let his guard down. He had nothing – no axe, no spear, no blow darts, nothing on hand that could even work as a makeshift weapon to drive the beast back. All he could do without a weapon is run from the hounds, hope that they lost interest or found an easier target before he was overcome with exhaustion, pray that they didn’t catch him.

Here in this locked chamber, there was nowhere to go.

He held his hands out in a poor attempt at defense. Fingers splayed, tense and ready to grapple with the beast should it decide it was still hungry. Adrenaline raced through him, his heart pounding and his head swimming as another pang of a headache shot through his temples.

He winced, just enough of a movement for the beast before him to take a cue, snarling and barking and lunging forward, nipping at his ankles.

He lashed out again, the heel of his shoe connecting hard with the hound’s muzzle, and there was a shrill, canid whine of pain as it reeled away from him. It pawed at its nose, snorted, and snarled up at him again, leaning back to leap up, its front claws extended and jaws wide as it pounced.

It knocked Wilson over, his back hitting the concrete and the air rushing from his lungs as the thing set its weight atop him, pinning him down. He let out another musical squawk, bracing himself for the inevitable.

There was a loud, terrible noise in his ear, his eyes screwed shut tight and teeth grit.

A moment passed. Wilson peeked up at the hound.

It made the same noise, loud and roaring, and Wilson sat up.

It was snoring.

It had fallen asleep in his lap.

He let out a trilling, nervy little laugh as he reached tentatively towards it, burying his fingers in the coarse fur and shoving it off of him, a scramble of limbs as he scuttled away from the sleeping beast.

There was the hissing sound of the lock, and heavy footsteps. “Good work, Higgsbury.” Ford’s voice came, closer and more natural-sounding now as he felt hands clasp around his upper arms, lifting him to his feet. All these sensations seemed a mile away as he found his footing, still staring down at the sleeping hound. “Why don’t you take a break?” he asked, and Wilson finally looked up to find the man standing there, holding Wilson’s journal out to him. Clammy hands took the book, placing it back in the satchel. “I’ll get 210 back in its cell.”

He honked something, the muttered English lost under the sound of the trumpets that issued forth instead, and turned, eager to be out of the chamber.

He paced in the bunker, wringing his hands and staring down at his shoes as they clicked against the concrete floor. The sound seemed to echo in his ears, and more than once the man was certain that he saw the glowing glint of something staring at him from the dark corners, only to disappear behind a stack of boxes or a tall cabinet when he looked directly at it. The bunker was not the most organized workspace Wilson had ever seen. He told himself these things were just lights glinting off of the bits of metal scattered here and there.

That’s all they were.

He took a deep breath, feeling another irritable pang between his eyes as Ford rejoined him, dusting his hands clean as he removed his own gloves. He paused, watching the man pace a few more rounds before he came to a stop, facing Ford with a grim look about him.

“Are you alright, Higgsbury?” he asked. “You don’t look so good…”

“♫♪♩♩♬! ♫♫♪♬♪♩?” His trumpeting squeaked up into the next octave. “♩♩♪!”

“Well, yes,” Ford admitted. “I assure you, it’s long in the past. Gravity Falls has had its share of multidimensional mishaps, sure, but--”

“♩♫♪♫.”

“Are you certain, Wilson?”

The man could feel the shadows itching and clawing at the edges of his vision. He blinked rapidly, digging the heel of his palm into his eye before looking up at Ford, noting the flashes of light in the shadows had flickered out.

He nodded.

“Very well. This way.” Ford said heavily.

It may not have been Wilson’s most brilliant idea, but he  _ needed _ to know. This wasn’t something he could just leave be, push to the back of his mind to forget about it and smother his worries.

Ford’s hand was quick and practiced as he touched a series of symbol engraved tiles set in the far wall. Each one depressed, sinking into its slot and glowing a brilliant, rich gold as it sunk into place. When all of the appropriate tiles had been pressed in the correct order, there was another hiss of pressure being released, and one of the tall book cases containing nothing but boxes upon boxes of canned foods swung open, revealing another dark, cramped tunnel. It was very much like the one Wilson had taken to get down here, only smaller, if that were possible.

He swallowed thickly, looking at the consuming darkness that stretched down the tunnel like an encroaching void. Suddenly, he wasn’t sure it was worth the trip.

Ford flipped a switch on the dashboard console that had controlled the cryo storage tubes and, to Wilson’s relief, hanging lamps switched on one by one through the length of the tunnel, each with a loud thunk and the hum of electricity.

He followed Ford down the tunnel with measured steps, one hand periodically pressing against the cold, smooth concrete of the walls. He wished he’d had the mind to bring a torch along with him. They were almost always reliable, and certainly more settling for Wilson than these flickering, humming electrical lights. But he supposed that wouldn’t have exactly been practical, given the length of the tunnel. They often burned for a very short amount of time, and could be a risk unless you knew exactly how long you were going to need it.

Wilson’s train of thought was derailed as he realized they’d reached another door – and without incident, he was pleased to note. It was a much more pleasant thought to dwell on than what might be on the other side of this door. His heart was in his throat, already picturing the tall form of the door wearing the very same sadistic grin it had the last time he’d seen it in his attic, as if this were all some terrible joke that it couldn’t wait to tell over, and over, and over again, until Wilson knew it by heart.

“This was an experiment of mine,” Ford explained. “I completed work on it over thirty years ago, under the direction of a being of the second dimension, who promised this machine would bring a new age of human enlightenment.”

Wilson mumbled something nearly unintelligible, but Ford might have guessed he’d heard to words ‘forbidden knowledge.’

The whole ordeal sounded terribly familiar – enough to set the scientist’s heart sinking at the very idea of another one of those doors being in this world. He’d thought, foolishly, that he was free of the voice from the radio, from the shadows and the night terrors crawling through the dark. He’d thought, upon finding the Pines family and Gravity Falls, that he’d somehow managed to escape the bizarre world the shadows had dragged him to. Now he was beginning to fear that all he had managed to do was jump to another world just like it, where the shadows were merely biding their time. It wouldn’t have been the first time Wilson had hopped from world to world, leaving one behind him to crumble to dust only to find himself trapped in a near exact duplicate.

He remembered the harsh, biting laughter that echoed through his head every time he’d activated one of the runic platforms.

This time had been no different.

As the pair entered the vast underground lab, the first thing he noticed was a faint blue glow, not unlike the light bulbs he’d found in the cave systems back in the woods.

Wilson frowned.

Well that wasn’t right.

His eyes adjusted to the dark as he ignored the nervous itch that crawled across his skin, and slowly, he began to see it: a great triangular form, with a ring set in the middle. It was large –much larger than the machine that Wilson had built in his attic – indeed, this machine was almost the size of Wilson’s little cottage!

In the blink of an eye, Ford was at the controls, fiddling with dials and levers and all sorts of mechanisms that Wilson couldn’t even begin to understand in that moment. “Getting back to this dimension took a toll on the unstable frame of the machine, but I’ve been repairing it since Stanley and I returned from the Atlantic. It’s almost back in working order. As a matter of fact,” he said with a warm chuckle, “I wouldn’t be surprised if my running tests is the reason you landed here in Gravity Falls.” He hummed absently, and Wilson felt his blood chill.

“♬♪♪♩… ♬♪♩?” he asked sheepishly. His voice sounded choked in his throat, but Ford seemed so engrossed in his work at the control panel that he didn’t seem to notice.

“Not entirely. The being who helped me build this machine wanted to use it to breach into this dimension and claim it as his own, to let chaos run rampant across the universe. My family and I managed to put an end to his plans, of course. But with him out of the picture, the multiverse is at our fingertips – of course, I’ve made my own operational adjustments to the machine since my enemy’s defeat. It’s basic multidimensional physics,” he said, as if Wilson was even registering what he was saying. He was still far too caught up on the idea of familiar, dastardly forces.

He feared now more than ever that he was no longer safe here, that somehow, the shadows would seep through Stanford’s machine and whisk him away again like they had when he’d activated the machine in his attic.

He had no right to this place, he was well aware of that. He had no right to his living space, to the food he was given, to the kindness and company of the kids or the sense of purpose Ford’s work gave him. He was an intruder from a foreign place – where, exactly, he was less sure every day. Falmouth, sure, but what did that mean in a place where electricity and such easy access to water were so commonplace? What did that mean in a place where the science here surpassed anything the scholars back home had ever dreamed of?

He was so grateful, for these people and their charity, and he knew he had no place among them.

But he had to do something. 


	6. Bill! Bill! Bill! Bill!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone,
> 
> So like I said I'm really gonna try not to abandoned this project. Re-reading it I really liked the dynamic and the overall story that I'd had planned. I have a few more chapters lined up - way more than I originally thought, actually, though they may be a touch shorter from here on out. 
> 
> However, in re-reading my own material I realize that I have the worst memory of any human being on this planet and have retained practically NOTHING from Gravity Falls. So I'm definitely going to need to re-watch that before I can start properly writing this again. Thankfully, it was only two seasons and also on Hulu. 
> 
> That being said, I really hope you guys are enjoying this so far, and am really appreciative that it was received so well, even after the Hiatus from Hell. These author's notes won't persist for too much longer, but after more than a year hiatus I have this weird compulsion to explain myself and beg for forgiveness lmao 
> 
> Anyway, Happy Reading!
> 
> -Daisy

The night was long and lonely. The small hours of the morning were always the worst – just before dawn, Wilson paced the bedroom, his hands clasped behind his back and his gaze glued to the floor. Truthfully, he was afraid to look up. He was afraid to come face to face with another shadowy Lovecraftian horror that was lurking, watching him from the edge of the little field of light that he’d set for himself.

The electric glow of the little lamplight alone wasn’t enough to dispel the shadows. They flickered too easily, popped and fizzled when the shadows touched them, dying out and bathing Wilson in a sudden, suffocating darkness that buzzed in his ears and crawled along his skin. He’d asked about a torch, but Ford had just given him an odd, slim lamp that fit in the palm of his hand. Useless for driving away the shadows.

And so, he paced. He paced, the soles of his shoes clicking repetitiously on the wooden floor of the bedroom. He paced, every nerve in his body jittery and on edge. He paced, counting in his head the number of steps he took into the hundreds, simply to give his mind something to focus on other than the darkness and the shadows and the danger festering below his feet. Shapes manifested in his peripheral vision, and he made short work of the culprits in his surroundings – he gently removed the décor, folding the slick paper calendar so that the wide eyes of the wise owl no longer stared at him from the inky blackness. He fixed the knick knacks on the desk and the shelves, turning their eyes away from him. A metal waste-paper basket served as an impromptu fire pit, the crumpled papers and other rubbish set ablaze by one spare match. He’d struck it against the side of the box and thrown it in some hours ago, keeping careful watch to stoke it enough to keep it lit without over burning or growing too wild.

He may not have had it down to an exact science yet, but he had reason to be proud of his skill. He remembered the first night he’d been trapped in the forest – he’d been unable to keep the fire more than a few smoldering ashes for most of the night, almost consumed by the darkness on more than one occasion. Now, he was able to keep a hearty fire going through the night to calm his nerves and keep the nightmares at bay.

It crackled and sputtered, the little circle of light dimming, and Wilson hurried over to it, interrupting the path he’d been wearing into a rut in the floor for some time. A few scraps of wastepaper he’d scrounged up from the abandoned work desk at the far end of the room weren’t, perhaps, the best materials for burning, but they kept the fire alive and that was all that mattered to the scientist.

He swallowed thickly, watching the embers glow deep in the waste bin as he took a few tentative steps away from it, ready to pounce and tend to it should it decide it wasn’t sated by those few scraps of paper. When he was satisfied it would keep and not sputter out again for some time, he resumed his pacing.

The lights in the darkness were more pronounced now – eyes, big and luminescent in the far reaches of the room. He knew they weren’t really there. He knew it. And yet they still watched him, still followed his every movement and sometimes even blinked down at him, shifting as if they were attached to some great beast waiting just beyond the safety of his firelight.

He felt a cold sweat run down the back of his neck as his gaze darted around the room. He hated this – absolutely loathed it, to be plagued by these creatures of his imagination even here! He’d been a daft fool to really truly believe he’d found freedom from the crawling horrors.

Wilson came to an abrupt stop, standing in front of the metal basket and staring deep into the crackling fire, trying to gather his wits and perhaps burn the images of the crawling, shuffling, slinking monsters out of his vision.

The papers blackened, their edges curling as he watched the flames finally devouring the scraps he’d fed it. The room smelled like smoke and char, but it was a pleasant smell that he’d long grown used to and found comfort in, and with the few shafts of moonlight that filtered through the roof, Wilson was confident that even this little bit of smoke had an escape to the outside world.

He frowned deeply.

He so desperately had wished this world would be different. That things might end differently, that he wouldn’t spend days racing against the darkness to assemble another device that would just take him to another version of the same world. It had been an endless, mindless journey – build and destroy and build and destroy, over and over with some shred of hope that the next time, things might be different.

But they never were, of course.

Not until now.

He didn’t want to let this go. He didn’t want to pack up and move on. He liked Gravity Falls! He liked the Pines family, as kind as they were to him. He would have very much liked to build something that might have resembled a normal life here.

But he knew he couldn’t – not with the looming threat of that other world just beyond the door. The portal that Stanford had repaired in his laboratory, was too similar, too uncannily similar for it to just be a coincidence. And though the portal might not have bore the same resemblance as the door had – with its menacing grin and the aura of fear and dread it had given off the moment it was finished – there was no denying that they were still one and the same, and Wilson could all too easily imagine the shadowy talons snaking from the center, searching for him, for anyone, to drag back into that unforgiving world for the entertainment of some sadistic power.

The little bit of story that Stanford had given him, about the allure of a forbidden knowledge that would bring about a new age of human enlightenment, was far too familiar for him to believe anything other than the notion that this portal Stanford had built, and the experiments he was running with it, were dangerous.

Wilson looked up, his heart thudding in his chest as he spied another shape out of the corner of his eye. It was another luminescent glint of light, an eye with a very obvious pupil, long and black against the singular wide eye. Unlike the others, which retreated to the darkness when he looked directly at them, this one remained. It stared back at him, intelligent and calculating, and Wilson felt another pang of pain between his eyes, where his headache was blossoming fully now.

Damn these terrors, damn these visions, damn his own fragile, penetrable mind. As brilliant as he was, it didn’t stop the crawling horrors from seeping in at the edges, turning everything blurry and frightful.

He peered out the single window for what must have been the twentieth time this evening. He’d lost count some time ago, and it didn’t truly matter anyway. The only thing that mattered was that it was still dark out. The night seemed to stretch on for hours out here. It was miserable and discouraging to say the least, but Wilson was determined to wait it out in safety, no matter how jeering the shapes in the darkness were.

He felt sick, his stomach turning as he brought both hands up to his temple, reeling for a moment as he tried to will the shadows back into the darkness. He took several deep, slow breaths, squeezing his eyes shut tight and focusing, hearing the whispers and rush of wind in his ears rise to a crescendo and then die away.

He peeked up.

Everything was peaceful.

His hands dragged absently down his cheeks and he adjusted his collar, looking around. He swallowed thickly and snuffed out the flames in the waste paper basket, grabbing the flashlight Ford had given him and venturing on. He paused at the bedroom door, steeling himself and making a decision right there. With shaky confidence, he opened the bedroom door and ventured down the darkened hallways. He held his breath as he went, expecting to hear the familiar hiss of the shadows, to see it slithering away from him as he neared. He passed the staircase, one hand lighting upon the banister at the bottom to steady him as he moved on.

After Stanford had showed him the portal, the structure massive and so different from the machine Wilson had built in his attic - and yet every bit as dangerous and sinister - the older scientist had been delighted to show his guest one of the many secrets of the Mystery Shack: a secret entrance to the subterranean laboratory, hidden behind a quizzical piece of machinery that seemed to function as a pantry of sorts. Stanford had called it the Vending Machine, and Wilson now found himself standing just before it, bathed in the cream light of the little electric lantern.

The flashlight cast eerie shadows on the machine and Wilson looked up at it. The light glinted off the glass, causing an incredible glare that he had to squint against as he stood there, waging moral war with himself.

He couldn't leave that portal be, not with those creatures out there, not with the deceptively charming voice that had come to him through a staticy old radio, still lurking out there somewhere, waiting to drag him back into his own personal endless hell.

He took a deep breath, one slender hand splayed against the smooth, cool glass.

Ford would be in the bunker, he was almost certain of it. That man worked tirelessly, preferring to work than sleep in the small hours of the morning. Wilson could understand why. Nightmares were easier to beat back into the recesses of your mind when you were awake.

He couldn’t even begin to understand why Stanford was taking such a risk like this – to continue experiments with the portal, after everything he said had happened because of it! Wilson knew without a doubt that if he ever returned to his home in Falmouth that the very first thing he was doing was dismantling the horrid machine that the voice in the radio had instructed him to build, burning the whole thing in a magnificent pyre. He wasn’t keen on leaving so much as a scrap of metal or wood behind, and yet Stanford had repaired the portal after its initial destruction, began re-opening rifts and running the incredible risk of having it happen all over again.

Wilson stood at the entrance to the laboratory. He’d never been a terribly intrusive person. He much preferred to keep to himself, quiet and alone and out of everyone’s hair. People complained less, that way. After everything the Pines family had done for him, he couldn’t even believe that he was here, contemplating such a deed.

“♬♫♫♪…” he honked, miserably.

Perhaps he was over-reacting. Ford certainly didn’t seem too concerned about horrors from other dimensions seeping through the cracks of reality like the inky shadows that had pulled him into purgatory in the first place.

But then, Ford didn’t know the shadows like he did.

Perhaps he was overreacting. Ford was skilled, certainly more-so in fields like this than Wilson was. The man had dedicated his life to turning the inexplicable on its head, to using science to understand the world beyond understanding. He’d built the portal. Surely Ford knew what it was capable of.

Perhaps he was overreacting.

“♩♩♫… ♬♫♪.” Wilson ran a hand through his hair, thin fingers raking it back with little success. His hair was rarely cooperative. “♫♪♪♬♩…”

He whined and trumpeted as his feet carried him away from the vending machine again, his nervous habits getting the better of him. He didn’t like to stand still when he was nervous – it felt like so much pent up energy trying to escape him at once. Instead, he paced, trumpeting softly, miserably as he tried to talk out his thoughts, to keep his mind organized and calm and collected as he struggled with a decision that had seemed so simple and clear cut from the bedroom.

“Wilson?”

He froze, back straight as a ruler and eyes wide as he swung around, shining the light up the steps just beyond the doorframe.

Standing at the top of the stairs, squinting into the glow of the flashlight, were Dipper and Mabel, both bleary-eyed and dressed for sleep.

Oh.

He must have woken them.

Blast this odd voice, trumpets and brass and noise. He lowered the flashlight, shining the beam away from the kids’ eyes. “♪♬♪…” he mumbled, hoping they understood the regret in his voice. He hadn’t meant to wake them up…

Mabel rubbed her eyes and Dipper yawned, both well aware it was only three in the morning. And here he was, pacing like a proper loon, waking these poor kids up.

“What’s going on?”

He bit down on his lip. He didn’t want to answer that.

The kids wouldn’t understand the paranoia or the stark worry that itched at the back of his mind. They were kids here for a summer with their family, not to worry about otherworldly horrors. He simply didn’t think they would understand, even if he  _ could _ explain to them why he was out here at three in the morning pacing in front of the machine, a frazzled mess who talked to himself in the dark.

Not to mention, the trumpet thing…

The stairs creaked and groaned as the kids moved down the steps, looking up at Wilson with concern.

He felt the tips of his ears begin to burn, more than a little shameful that he’d made such a nuisance of himself.

Mabel was the first to speak.

“You’re a scientist, right?” she asked, quietly, keeping her voice down so that she wouldn’t wake Grunkle Stan.

Wilson looked down at her, curiously. Once, he nodded.

The young girl broke into a wide grin. “I know what this calls for.”

“Science party?” Dipper asked, giving his sister a tired smile. He’d wondered exactly when the science party was going to happen – with her, it was never a question of if. Even as crickets chirped outside the quiet Shack and the moon cast soft light on the treetops of the Oregon woods outside, both kids knew there was no better time for a science party than right then.

“Science party.” She nodded, a kind of determination in her young face.

Mabel had done this for Dipper more times than she could count – and not to toot her own horn, but she’d gotten pretty good at it over the years. A patented Mabel Science Party was the best way to get a science nerd like her brother to turn a frown upside down!

She turned the living room light on, noticing the way Wilson clutched the flashlight for dear life as if the very idea of being in the dark was enough to make him start panicking again. She and Dipper were practiced, rummaging through the kitchen without so much as making a noise. They brought back a boon of all sorts of sweets and candies and chocolate milk. Perhaps a little much for three in the morning, but Mabel wouldn’t hear any complaints.

She sat Wilson on the chair in front of the tv, burying him under a veritable mountain of a sheet. It was soft and polka-dotted in various colors. She met his curious honks with the assurance that she knew what she was doing.

She and Dipper sat on the floor, one twin on either side of the chair. Mabel disappeared upstairs for a moment before returning with an old VHS, a peculiar little object to Wilson, who had never seen such a thing before – there was a lot in Gravity Falls, asides from the creatures and the inexplicable, that he had never before encountered.

“These always cheered Dipper up when we were younger,” she explained. “I’m sure you know all this stuff already, but they’re still fun!” She placed it in the hulking device atop the glass and metal monstrosity of the television set, and hit play.

Wilson sat with the kids, in the dim light of the living room and the blue electric glow of the television as he watched the old tape. An eccentric young man in a blue lab coat and strikingly colored bow tie was teaching the basic sciences of comets and meteors. It was a charming lesson, one that Wilson was pleased to find scientifically sound and engaging.

He was willing to admit, many things about the ordeal went clean over his head – bizarre, if not witty segments –  but the solidity of the science was a comfort. All three of them found more than a few laughs. Wilson always appreciated a good pun, and this peculiar lesson was full of them.

Dipper could quote bits word for word, and Wilson listened to him, rather impressed with how much the young man could recite. It’d taken him a long time to learn his own recitals as a kid, and it seemed that this boy did it for fun!

Mabel took another swig of chocolate milk just before the title sequence, and began chanting the scientist’s name in unison with the video. Wilson grinned, finding the kids endearing.

All at once, he realized that her silly little trick had worked. The panic and nervy feeling had gone from his chest. He was at ease, his mind running with facts and experiments rather than worries and fears, now.

He’d made up his mind.

He looked down at the two kids, how engaged they were with the video and with Wilson as they all watched together. He’d felt guilt over his apparent repayment of the Pines family’s kindness, but the portal was far too dangerous. He couldn’t allow the potential of the shadows following him, reaching into this world to drag him back.

Not with these kids here.

He was going to do something about the portal tomorrow night.

Before they knew it, the sun was coming up, the golden glow shining through the windows, muting the glow of the lamp and the flashlight that Wilson still held.

The three laughed again at the video as footsteps were heard, Mabel grinned wide and greeted her Grunkle Stan a good morning.

He squinted and looked at the tv. “Ugh. Are you kids watching that science show again?”

“It’s educational!”

Wilson grinned, echoing her in happy little trumpets.

“I don’t trust it. It’s TV that tricks you into learning.” Stan replied, grumpily crossing between them and the small pile of VHS tapes. Some were still in their paper sleeves, others laid haphazardly in front of the TV display.

Wilson chuckled. Guess he wasn’t much of a morning person. 


	7. The Scientific Term is "Thingamajig"

A-1-B-C-3

Wilson was silent, this time, as he tapped the numbers into the keypad of the vending machine. He’d seen Ford do it several times, now.

Days had passed, and the duo had continued working together in the bunker. The place seemed dreadfully old – over thirty years unkempt, Stanford told the gentleman scientist. Surely it was going to need a lot of work before it was fit for any kind of intensive experiments again. For that, Wilson was grateful. It gave him a wide opportunity to do his dirty work in the small hours of the morning. While Ford was away, busying himself in the bunker as he took stock and reorganized and rebuilt the necessary equipment, Wilson slowly whittled away at the portal.

It had started small – just a few loose wires and exposed mechanisms. He’d spent hours upon hours examining the machine, making sense of the parts and the science behind each, so that he could sabotage it from the base up, rendering it inoperable. But inoperable still wasn’t good enough. Not with someone like Stanford around who could so easily repair it.

It was the first time since Wilson had finished building the ghastly machine that still resided in his attic that he was, in a way, glad for the forbidden knowledge that the voice in the radio had gifted him. Sciences and mathematics that were yet unknown in the academic community from which he’d come – advanced theorems and arcana of all sorts, flawlessly integrated into the physics of the world he once inhabited, to the point where Wilson’s science and the voice’s magic were almost indistinguishable.

He saw it now, of course – the stark difference between the two methods. Wilson’s science was sound, tested, grounded in reality and sanity, whereas the arcana he’d delved into during his fevered construction of the machine had been obscure and just as shady as the man who had taught it all to him in the first place.

But arcana aside, the higher understanding of science that Wilson had at his disposal was a gift now more than ever. He’d never seen anything quite like this machine before. He supposed Stanford truly was a gifted scientist, and heavens knew what men like them could do under the direction of some smooth-talking liar who promised you renown and the highest respects.

Wilson had been no small amount surprised at the familiar story. How peculiar, that he should stumble upon someone who knew the exact same deception. He’d never believed in fate. Fate was unscientific. But he couldn’t help but feel like these things were contrived, in some way.

Well, be it fate or something more reasonable, Wilson had somehow managed to find himself at the Pines residence. He was unspeakably grateful to them. And for that reason, he'd decided, he was to undo Stanford's work.

It was a dastardly motivation to say the least, but he  _ had _ to. With a portal like this, the shadows would no doubt come creeping back, putting these people at risk for the very same misery and danger Wilson himself had endured for God only knew how long. He didn't want to see anyone dragged into that hellscape at his expense, least of all those two darling children. 

He knew that confronting Ford would be useless - disastrous, even. The man had spent his life building and rebuilding a machine that Wilson was vehement about dismantling. He knew without a doubt that, were the tables turned, he would be livid to find out that Ford had been sabotaging his work like this. That familiar feeling of guilt began creeping into his chest, only to be squashed by the reminder that if he didn't do this, if he left the portal to be opened without any precautions taken against that other world, then the shadows would surely come crawling into this world like oil seeping through the cracks. 

And so, in the small hours of the morning, Wilson donned his goggles and the old apron, laying himself down beneath the operating console of the machine, tools by his side and a buzzing in his head that he did everything in his power to quash.  

He worked swiftly, undoing a few more integral components of the operating panel before he paused. Sitting there, just below a cluster of multicolored wiring, was a small glass dome, something that looked like it had been handcrafted to fit the specifics of the machine. He reached out to grab it, twisting it in its place, better examining it.

Even through the rubber of the gloves, Wilson could feel it. He was no stranger to curious and powerful machinery. Even aside from the machine the voice in the radio had instructed him to build, he’d built more than one oddity on his own out in the woods. The Prestihatitator, the Shadow Manipulator, he’d spent so long trying to convince himself that both machines were as scientific as their predecessors, only to give in to the looming fact that, no, they weren’t. They were something other, something darker and more sinister, and while they helped him in his research of that nightmarish world, they were as equally a part of it as the twisted little beardlings or the arachnids were.

All things considered, Wilson was fairly good at telling the two apart. He had to be. He had to learn the difference between his science and the sinister magic that pervaded that world if he’d ever hoped to escape it. And this piece of the machine, oddly shaped and thrumming with pent up energy, seemed to be a flawless meld of the two. He held it delicately in his hands, amazed that this piece should be such a missing link between science and the magic that had existed in the other world. It sent a pang of awe through him, coupled with no small amount of disquietude.

Wilson took a deep breath, his shoulders tensing as he wrapped his fingers around the thing, lifting his other hand to cut the wires surrounding it, freeing it from its restraints and bringing it down closer to examine it. It reminded him starkly of the pieces he’d gathered, again and again, from the vast sprawling landscape of the other world. A strange crank thing, a little box thing, a ring that seemed to be made of gold, and something he’d mistaken as a metal potato upon first encountering it. He’d found these same four components over and over in any number of different worlds, hoping that doing so would finally free him.

This one was certainly new.

The machine felt cold and lifeless without this little device. Wilson couldn’t put his finger on exactly why, and he certainly didn’t know what purpose this little doo-dad served, but he knew that it was important.

Very quietly, Wilson removed himself from beneath the control panel, making short work of putting everything back in its proper place, not leaving so much as a trace that the device had been tampered with. He was very methodical about how he left his workplace, having noted every little detail down to which direction the divets in the screws holding the plate to the machine were facing. He stood, brushing off the knees of his trousers and giving his handiwork a once over, making sure everything was back in its proper place before he nodded, satisfied with his work.

He looked down at the little device in his hands. The way it shimmered and glittered like the depths of space, never still to the eye, It almost seemed to give off an aura of a glow. He contemplated it for a moment, smothering once more that night the quickly rising guilt as he tucked the piece into the inside of his vest. It sat uncomfortably, being bulky and uneven, but it was the best place for it until he could dismantle the piece somewhere else.

And with that, Wilson Higgsbury took his leave from the subterranean laboratory, finding the Mystery Shack to be just as quiet and still as it was when he’d left it. 

 

Wilson felt a peculiar weight on his chest. His breath struggled and he felt like he couldn’t move. He knew this feeling, the pinpoints digging into his chest as some beast pinned him on his back. Hot breath fell upon his cheek, and his face scrunched up a bit in protest as he slept fitfully.

The beast on his chest leaned in close to his face, sniffing him, its snorts and snuffles ruffling his hair as he tried to crane his neck, to put some distance between him and the nightmarish creature who was surely trying to decide how to best make short work of him. He raised a hand to the beast, trying to push it off, and it squealed, sharp points digging into his ribcage. Wilson gasped in terror, waking with a start as he tried to push the hound off of him.

He paused.

Having broken out into a cold sweat, Wilson had his hands braced against the beast, ready to shove it off of him with all of his might, desperate to be out from under it. But now, eyes open and aware of his surroundings, he found he was not, in fact, staring into the snarling maw of a hound, but the kind, chubby pink face of a pig.

It sniffed him again, and leaned forward, beginning to nibble at the top of the blanket that Wilson had thrown over his shoulders the night before.

His shoulders dropped, letting out a breath that had gotten stuck in his chest when he’d woken up to find the animal atop him.

“♫♪♫…” he muttered, lifting Waddles so he could sit up properly. The little pig snorted happily up at him, settling into his lap.

“Waddles! Waddles, where did you go you silly pig—Oh!”

Mabel stopped in her tracks, having spied a flash of pink through the opened door of her uncle’s bedroom. “Waddles!” She rushed to scoop him up. “There you are, you little rascal, you!” She held him affectionately. “Sorry about that, Mr. Wilson. Waddles gets nosy sometimes.”

“♫♩♩♪♬!” Wilson said, swinging his legs over the edge of the sofa. Truthfully he didn’t mind. He’d had far more brutal awakenings than a pig climbing on top of him, that was for certain, and even through the short panic he’d felt, it was hard to remain any sort of angry when you woke up to a face like that. He gave Mabel a wide grin, his trilling trumpeting sound letting her know it was no bother at all.

When she’d left, he turned his attention to the clock mounted on the wall behind him. Seven in the morning. He’d gotten four hours of sleep – more than he could remember getting in a long time. He rarely slept in the purgatory hell woods he’d come from. There was too much danger, too much uncertainty and a fear of the dark that left him wired, wide awake and unable to rest until he was overcome by sheer exhaustion.

With the last week or so staying with the Pines, Wilson had gotten more rest than he knew what to do with. He was sleeping soundly every night, without the faint sound of a pack of hounds howling off in the distance, or the rain suddenly coming down in torrents, or a fire needing tending to in the dead of night. He felt like a new man, the aching exhaustion having fled from his bones and his eyes no longer heavy through the day.

He got up, stretched, and began to ready himself for the day. According to Stanford, the two of them were to test the various scientific equipment in and around the bunker today. Wilson had been delighted to hear that, more than a little eager to see some of the ever-remarkable machines this world had to offer. Ford’s creations, especially. The man was a talented scientist, whose knack for inventing and engineering far surpassed anything Wilson had had the privilege of witnessing back in Falmouth.

He buttoned his waistcoat, humming a little nonsense tune as he readied, his voice almost melodic with the fanfare of trumpets.

_ “Higgsbury!” _

The tune died in his throat, squeaking out one startled note before he fell silent.

Oh.

That wasn’t a happy sound.

Frantically, Wilson patted himself down, searching for the piece he’d stolen from the portal the previous night. His hand passed over the inside pocket of his vest, feeling the oddly shaped edges digging into his chest and the flat of his palm. He let out a breath of relief, and rushed to see what was going on.

He threw the bedroom door open, taking long strides as he followed Ford’s voice from the entrance to the Mystery Shack Gift Shop.

And as Wilson vacated the bedroom, his nerves still on edge and worries lodged in his chest, Dipper Pines very quietly slipped in.

Wilson took a deep breath and moved down the hall to meet Ford in the living room. Alright, act natural – he’d done nothing wrong! Aside from the sabotage, theft, and lying, of course. But he didn’t even have any concrete proof that this was about that! For all he knew, Ford was upset that the local market had stopped selling that particular brand of canned beans he’d seen stocked in the bunker. Yes, that must be it!

Wilson swallowed thickly; he was a dead man.

He cleared his throat, hands clasped behind his back so Ford couldn’t see how tight his grip was. “♪♫♫♩♬?”

“Et tu, Higgsbury?” He frowned deeply. “Imagine my surprise when I came back to the basement lab this morning and found my life’s work was suddenly  _ inoperable _ .”

A cold sweat formed on the back of his neck. “♫-♫♪♪♩…♪♪♩…♫♬?”

“I might have thought so too, were it not for the fact that only three people have access to my labs. Me, my brother, and you. I didn’t do this, and I know Stanley didn’t do this. So, Mr. Higgbury, can you tell me why, exactly, you seem to have worked so hard to dismantle my portal?” 

There was an unusual feeling in his chest. It wasn’t guilt, and it wasn’t fear. He knew both of those very intimately after everything that had happened. This was a feeling that pushed relentlessly upwards, starting in the pit of his stomach and clawing its way up into his chest, struggling up his throat as his shoulders tensed.

His breath caught and all at once Wilson let out the loudest honking fanfare any of the Pines had ever heard. He gesticulated wildly, trying to get the words across despite knowing Ford could understand him perfectly well.

“♫♪♪♩! ♪♪! ♩♫!” he exclaimed, jabbing a bony finger into Ford’s chest. “♬♬♩♪!”

He’d taken a deep breath, his tirade cut short for a fraction of a second when he heard something from behind him. “What’s all the trumpets about? Are you guys okay?”

Mabel, still holding Waddles, was looking up at her great uncle Stanford and their peculiar houseguest with some uncertainty.

Wilson blinked down at her, and quite suddenly he understood exactly what that peculiar rising pressure in his chest was. In an instant, he was red in the face, turning back to Ford and trumpeting even louder than before, raising himself up on the balls of his feet to be more level with Ford.

“♫♩♪♬! ♪♫♫♪, ♩♩♪! ♪♫, ♫♪♪. ♩♫♫♬. ♪♫!”

Ford looked deeply offended, and Wilson knew that he’d struck a nerve with the man. “That is  _ not _ for you to decide!” he said, his voice dark and measured as he looked hard at the man before him. Wilson did his best to bury the rising nervousness, instead choosing to fan the flames of the anger in his chest. These kids were at risk, the whole Pines  _ family _ was at risk now that Wilson was there with them, but Ford was too caught up in his science to understand the horror and the danger of the place that Wilson had come from. “The portal is  _ my _ experiment,  _ my _ work, and while I respect your aptitude for the science, Mr. Higgsbury, you don’t have any idea what kind of work you just dismantled.”

Wilson squinted up at the man, no small amount offended. He’d certainly understood it enough to take it apart! And he knew it was trouble. Beyond that, he couldn’t say he  _ wanted _ to know much more about the portal.

“It’s going to take me weeks to repair the damage that you did in a few days!” he snapped exasperatedly as he seemed to ignore the man’s protests. “And frankly, I don’t think any sort of prolonged partnership is feasible anymore, Mr. Higgsbury.”

Wilson froze. After everything, Ford just intended to repair the portal anyway? After knowing what kind of shadowy creatures lurked in nearby worlds, just waiting for their chance to seep into this one and whisk away whoever they could get their hands on?

“Wait, you don’t mean--” He heard Mabel start, concern in her voice.

Wilson took a deep breath, and squared his shoulders, turning and taking his leave from the Mystery Shack. If Ford was going to repair the portal, Wilson agreed: it would be best for him to be far away from the Shack – from the Pines and from the kids – when that happened.

The sun was just beginning to set in Gravity Falls. The sky was painted orange and birds were flitting between trees, trying to get home before darkness fell. Wilson squinted into the sunlight. He had about half an hour to gather enough supplies to build himself a small campfire for the night, and then he would do his best to make it back to Falmouth. He highly doubted there was anything left for him there. He’d been gone so long already, he was most likely going to have to start fresh.

But if Stanford ever got that machine running and the shadows came after him again, they’d have to come a long way from Gravity Falls to find him.

Besides...

Wilson pulled, from the inside pocket of his waistcoat, the unseemly, clunky device that had made Stanford’s portal run.

He sighed deeply, placing it back in his pocket and getting to work.

He was fairly certain that Stanford wasn’t getting that machine up and running any time soon. 


End file.
